


Sixth Sense

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: I hurt them a little but then I fixed them, I said AMTDI but there isn't really coercion, M/M, amtdi, distressing lack of actual porn, get-together, stuck in an elevator, sudden telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't know what that jolt was, or why the elevators have failed, but he does suddenly know everything Coulson feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixth Sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jmathieson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/gifts).



> Some of the elements of jmathieson's request were "stuck in an elevator" and "sudden telepathy." I hope putting them together was all right...

When Clint finds himself doubting his eyesight, it’s a bad moment.

It doesn’t really last long; every sense but one is confirming what his eyes see, and the one is unreliable as shit and oh hey! brand new! so inside of three minutes he’s working the problem, but still, it leaves him unsettled which makes the rest of the situation take a little longer to see.

He’s in an elevator – rare, for him; usually he’d rather just climb, but there are some buildings where even he gets that it’s stupid to run up 96 flights of stairs – when everything lights up. Like, everything. It looks like lightning, like what happens when Thor lets loose, but clearly there’s something not-right (supernatural? Oh, right, as opposed to Thor. Well, anyway.) about it because, okay, it heats things up, sure, and he’s pretty glad he’s wearing nonconducting materials over much of his body (and that his bow is a wacky Stark-designed polymer which neither burns him nor melts in his hand), but still, ordinary lightning or other electrical storm probably ought to make it a serious problem to be standing in a metal box, and just, it jolts things, and after a minute there’s a hard enough shake that it knocks him off balance, but basically once it’s over the elevator itself is intact and holding position.

Except.

His eyes say he’s fine. On his ass, but fine.

But are they wrong? Because his ankle? Says it’s busted and swelling over the top of his shoe (what? He’s wearing boots!), and his belly and ears say they’re falling (what? No, the elevator has clear panels a couple of places up high, because architects and design aesthetics; it’s not moving in the shaft, and the lack of vibration in his hands on the floor as he picks himself up agrees). And his brain and churning gut say he’s (what. the. fuck.) terrified about the whole situation. 

And look, okay, every once in a while he feels a moment of, like, _regret_ as he’s hurling himself somewhere fucking stupid, because it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker to land on his quiver in a shower of glass or because goddammit he had to jump before the job was as done as he liked? But even as a child, when Gina taught him about tightrope and trapeze and stuff, he’s never felt actually _afraid_ about falling. Hell, usually the fear aspect in those regret moments is all in his ear, all Coulson…

All Coulson…

Shit. He closes his eyes and yanks the aids out of his ears to ditch as much of his own physical input as he can, and stands quiet in the middle of the elevator, letting himself feel that ankle and look at that shoe. Lets himself feel the slow rattling drop of the floor beneath him with its occasional stops and occasionally sharp jolts. Lets himself look at the flickering lights in his mind’s eye and notice the burning in his palms, in his chest, the liquid warmth running down the sides of his neck. Shit.

Yeah, okay, so the most rational explanation (and there’s no time to ask this question, but seriously, what the fuck is his life) is that he’s somehow, mechanism unknown, psychically attached to Coulson.

Who, and Clint has never said anything about this out loud but he has eyes, he can see, is actually kind of not a fan of heights. He copes, hell he even jumps out of planes and shit, because he is Phil Coulson and weaknesses are not his game, but Clint has known for a long time that given equally good choices, Coulson will never be the one up high without a net.

Coulson was, when Clint took off running, coming up the freight elevator, which is at the southeast corner of the building. It’s two hundred and fifty feet, give or take, from Clint’s current position, and if the elevator is falling… Clint’s box is stopped on (roughly) the 74th floor; more than likely Coulson is at least forty or fifty stories up from ground level. And falling elevators are not awesome for surviving.

Right, so telepathic connection to injured and freaking out badass in a sliding box of doom a football field away with no idea how much time there is to act and whether there are additional obstacles. Or whether they’ve been attacked or merely unfortunate.

So that’s the new sense part.

And for an Avenger probably this is kind of just a Tuesday and all, but it’s still a little stressful.

Clint crams his ears back in and tries the comm. Nope. Which, not surprising; lightning and electronics are, in general, not really friends. Still, in case he’s getting message out but not receiving, he says, maybe a little more firmly than he quite believes because it’s not like he has reasonable evidence of fucking _anything_ , that Coulson is hurt, he’s moving to assist, and oh hey by the way, comms are sucking.

Then he starts working on the door of his box.

Things not anticipated, from the beginning of this little game: guess what? Metal apparently acts as insulation in the case of psychic linking or tele-empathy or whateverthefuck this is; as soon as Clint has the door pulled apart enough to get his shoulders through the gap he jumps up and worms his way onto the floor and then spends several seconds staring stupidly at his hands and trying to remember to breathe, because that’s not just ordinary fear, that’s a fucking panic attack trying to take over the world. Awesome.

So , okay, maybe the psyconnector thing goes both ways. Fine. He tells his heart to stop trying to actually bust loose, and takes the time to sit still on his knees, butt down on his heels and palms on this thighs as he makes a specific effort to think Phil Coulson calm from several dozen yards away. He feels utterly ridiculous, and a couple of people who seem to be correctly evacuating the building stop to ‘help’ him, but he waves them off and tries to figure out how the fuck to project calm to someone else.

One lady asks if he’s praying. Which, sure, close enough, and once she gets that idea she leaves him alone, so bonus.

After a couple minutes the overwhelmingness of the fear sensation dims a little, although it’s basically impossible to assess whether that’s because Coulson is calmer, or Clint is just getting used to it, but either way, he pushes to his feet, keeps thinking the calmest thoughts he can while running at a good pace down the hall, around the corner, through the conference room, past the stairwell (people who feel serenity while running are weirdos, no lie), down eighteen flights on a tear and then in the door when the floor feels right, and then he skids to a stop and listens at the shaft.

When he puts his hands to the doorframe, he can feel the shudder that matches what his gut says is happening, definitely several (maybe only a couple, he thinks?) floors down, so, okay, psychic connections are apparently accurate and real time, good to know. He considers just blowing the door open (short on time here, probably?) but without eyes inside it’s not like he can tell exactly how much damage there, is, so he starts in on prying the door apart. Which it turns out sucks because this elevator is heavier duty than the passenger one he was in (why the hell it’s the one falling is anyone’s guess; just lucky, maybe).

“Need a hand?”

He whirls to find Stark’s snuck up on him. Well, no, probably not; Stark and sneaking are extremely unrelated concepts. Stark has arrived probably with trumpets blaring, but Clint’s focus was elsewhere. “Uh, don’t blow anything up, but yeah? Coulson’s in there, and falling.”

“You got comms to him? Everyone else can’t get either of you.”

“Uh. Sorta. Code, kind of.” Which isn't all that complete of an answer, but Clint feels protective of Coulsons's reputation as a stone-cold badass, and telling Stark _yeah, I can feel him panicking in there_ doesn't seem right at all. “Anyway, I can ...prolly get to him? just need the door.”

Stark nods and magnetizes his palms, sets them to the two sides and hauls apart. “So, you’re good? ‘Cause, I was on my way up top to take care of, you know, the asshat with the electrical bastardization of physics and…”

“Why’d you stop here, anyway?” Clint peers down into the shaft, then shrugs. Naturally this particular elevator shaft doesn't have a particularly useful maintenance ladder because why would his life be easy, but sliding's faster anyway. Okay, three of four clamps look mostly unshattered from here although the difference between unshattered and entirely whole is maybe a little vast. But anyway it doesn't seem like they're in particularly imminent danger of crumbling completely in the next ten seconds. He flips through the options on the quiver, chooses an arrowhead, and takes aim.

Stark points. “Saw you through the window. Anyway, have fun monkeying.”

“We’ll be ...uh, fine,” Clint says to Stark’s quickly-retreating suit. He lets one arrow fly, then yanks another and aims again; in fifteen seconds he has a grappling hook and line to ride down, and, while it won’t hold all that long, he’s got a pin punched through the weakest corner and into the concrete of the shaft. He takes a breath, thinks, _I’m on my way_ in Coulson's general direction, and slides down. 

Okay fine, maybe he should have had Stark drop down below and hold the damn car up while he did this, but the psychic thing is _completely_ damaging his calm and it's hard to tell when his belly jumps if it's _his_ gut tossing up a flare, or Coulson's, and since he doesn't actually know for sure where Coulson's flare lines _are_ , it's a little confusing.

First things first. He stops short of the actual car because why add his weight if he doesn't gotta, twists the line around his wrist to hold him and leans down to tap. Simple code: identity, assistance, respond.

Coulson just hollers up. “Yeah, saw the calling card, busted ankle, can't stand on it, gonna need a rope.” He's muffled, but what he says is what Clint basically expects and oh hey, the surge of relief from Coulson and through Clint so hard it makes his teeth ring only helps carry the meaning anyway.

Well, okay. Relief tide aside, he _sounds_ perfectly cool and collected, and Clint just puts away immediately the somewhat unfunny thought that if Coulson feels like _this_ and sounds like _that_ Clint's probably been helping him work on a heart attack for years now. But, playing along, Clint hollers back, “Good thing I carry one, then, man,” and clips his line together to hold him in place. Then pulls the utility tool off his belt to start unscrewing the top panel of the car, and when it's about off, uncoils the rope looped at his hip. “Heads!”

The panel swings down and Clint drops the rope immediately; Coulson is quick off the mark and is hauling himself up hand over hand in a second and Clint's helping him through the 18-inch square when the elevator car shudders again and the metal bends with a screech.

Coulson stills as the thing drops four inches around his hips, then looks at Clint. “Good timing.” 

He still sounds unflappable as ever, but now that Clint knows that's bullshit, he can see it in the tension around his eyes in the weird diffuse light coming from the door thirty feet above. “I try.” He extends a hand and drags Coulson up level with him. “So, I know you _can_ keep going up, but it sucks to do it all without your legs.”

“Better suggestion?” The car slips another inch, and Coulson shudders.

“You might not think it's better, but it kinda is. My better suggestion involves swinging over there to the side, waiting for the damn thing to drop down, and blowing the door below us. Easy peasy, but it does involve, you know, more hanging out way up an elevator shaft.”

Coulson levels a look at him. “And this would be a problem because?”

“Because you fuckin' hate heights. No, I mean, I already knew that before this whole feeling-it thing—wait. You _can_ , like, it's not just me, right? Because I knew you were here because my ankle hurt and I started panicking about falling from way over there.” Clint nods his head in the approximate direction of the public elevators, then starts them swinging to where there's not exactly a ladder, but there is something they can legitimately hang onto.

“And you concluded that was me?”

“No, I _knew_ it was you. But seriously, is it just me, or is this a two-way street?”

“It's two ways. I was sure you were on your way before you tapped.”

“Yeah, but I mean, you would be for me, so was that feeling it or guessing?”

“Feeling. You would be for me too, but there's a difference between knowing you will when you are aware of the problem, and knowing for sure that you're already on it.” Coulson shudders again as the elevator car drops another foot, then closes his eyes. “And as long as you already know, I _really_ fucking don't like heights. Look, the car's unsalvageable, right? So maybe while I uselessly cling here, you can just blow the damn thing and the door all at once?”

Clint has himself currently more or less wrapped around Coulson against the wall, because, see: ankle, and also he can still feel throbbing in hands that aren't his; holding on to the grippable surface is kind of sucking for Coulson right now. But, he also has a lot of years of trusting the man to state what he can or cannot do (hell, it's where Clint _learned_ to honestly self-assess rather than leaping completely blind and figuring it would all work out or end real quick), so he just says, “Kay, you're good if I go to work? Hands okay for this?”

“Think I'm good.”

So Clint swings free, drops a couple more feet because why not improve his angle, and plants a smallish explosive right between the doorframe and the next-failing clamp, then pulls himself back up and wraps around Coulson again for the blast. It's not a huge one, but it's amplified as shit in this concrete tunnel, plus there's the shock wave and crazy rush of air, and also, ow, maybe he could have protected his ears a little there? Because at least one of the aids just overloaded; the other one is ringing like a motherfucker, ugh, good planning as always, Barton.

Coulson turns to face him and shifts his weight, just so he has a hand free to sign _thanks, and you did good_.

“No prob,” Clint says. He looks down to assess his work (yeah, probably both ears are shot, damn it; he probably should have heard something of the fall and crash of the car). Well, okay, next order of business: down and in. Excellent. “No ears, sorry about your hands. So now: can you get there?” He leans his body away so Coulson can look, then watches for a response. 

A nod would have worked, but Coulson bothers to actually sign his answer one-handed ( _yes but please help_ ), which kind of makes Clint's stomach feel funny because it comes with this sense of doing it because Clint is worth effort, which, bullshit but that's for later.

About fifty seconds of careful maneuvering, of which an annoying twenty-plus is Clint getting leverage to move the stupid door, they manage to organize themselves for elevator shaft escape and fall out onto the floor in a heap Clint carefully arranges to avoid any more jolts to that ankle than he can help. He feels it, sure, but it's not devastating.

Okay, slightly better than getting shot; a lot worse than a picnic on a sunny day.

Clint crinkles up his face, then glances at Coulson while he rummages in his pocket for backup ears. They're kind of crappy – no comms, among other things – but it's just easier to assess threats when he can hear them coming. “Picnic, really?”

Coulson shrugs. “Sorry. But, true.”

“Okay. So let's have a look at those hands.”

Coulson's hands look like hell, the palms burned and blistered, leaking fluid from tears here and there in the damaged flesh that looks for all the world like actual electrical-burn damage even though probably that should have also stopped his heart and god knows what else. “They suck, but I don't really think we've got anything to treat them, and probably we should work on coordination with the team.”

“Yeah, hang on.” Clint crosses to a nearby desk and retrieves a phone – a wireless handset, thankfully – from a nearby desk, punches in a number and hands it to Coulson. “You coordinate; I have recon to do. Wait, here.” He takes the abandoned giant floral-patterned handbag of someone who'd apparently evacuated without grabbing her things (good) and puts it down for use as a pillow, bringing Coulson's calf and foot up onto a chair. “There. You should have JARVIS?” He points at the phone.

Coulson nods and starts trying to communicate with the team via landline to JARVIS (inefficient, but adequate) while Clint goes to see what in the way of first aid supplies the offices of, um, Bidwell and Claridge, CPA has to offer.

He finds a kit pretty quickly in the kitchenette and is pawing through it collecting a roll of gauze, some antiseptic wipes, an ace bandage (not great, but not nothing...) and some acetaminophen when he notices the confusion. It's strange: he'd gotten used to feeling Coulson in his head pretty quickly, and he'd actually kind of liked how the sort of ordinary sense of deliberation and planning felt up there behind his sinuses when Coulson took the phone, but now he has butterflies going again, and a small burst of worry. He scoops up his haul and runs back toward the elevator.

“Phone died,” Coulson says as he comes in the door. “Also, we seem to have a guest.”

Clint sets down the supplies next to Coulson's hip and follows his gaze. “Uh, okay, so asshat in charge of bastardized physics, what do you want?” 

“Asshat?” Coulson asks. He takes the acetaminophen and dry-swallows, then holds up his hands to let Clint at least start a dressing.

“Stark's official term.” Clint looks back at the creature. Who is ...what the hell. Like, sort of a blobby elf? No, Coulson seems to be considering it a _sprite_ , whatever that means. “So, seriously, sprite guy, what's your issue here?”

Sprite Guy, who is transparent and floaty, and also more or less a green outline reminiscent of flames with little bits jumping off here and there and with some kind of sparkly ...interior? Jesus, this seems like a being created by a thirteen-year-old girl. But as Clint glares at him waiting for an answer he slumps and his sparkles gel into a darker sludge. 

“Great, so now we have a _depressed_ sprite floating on the fifty-second floor in an accounting office, and still no team?”

Coulson shakes his head. “Had him for a minute, but I'm not sure I successfully conveyed our needs. Then this one showed up, and the phone went up in sparks all over.” 

“Depressed electrical demon sprite. Cool.”

“I'm not sure it's trying to harm us,” Coulson says. Well yeah, Clint could have told him that; the surge of curiosity hadn't been all that far behind the confusion, and also for all that Depressed Electrical Demon Sprite seems to be outputting some kind of power all over, he isn't menacing them or anything. Actually he seems to be ...trying to apologize? For fuck's sake, Clint is really starting to wonder when his life got so fucking weird. Like seriously, he doesn't know how Mjolnir in New Mexico wasn't a permanent unbreachable pinnacle, and yet.

“Oh, hey, here it is,” Stark says from the doorway. “Hi Sparky, I got the interface.”

“Sparky?” Clint feels Coulson's dry amusement as he raises his eyebrows to ask.

“I had to machine a part, sorry.” Stark comes over and looks down at the glum little being. “Hey buddy, I don't think this'll hurt, but if it does, _please_ try not to fry any more of the building. Or me. Or them.” He thumbs in the direction of Clint and Coulson. 

“So, what, exactly, is this interface?” Coulson asks. Clint moves to wrap the ankle some; he's hoping they can just ditch and go to the ER kind of soon, but still, even if Stark flies Coulson there, more support means less jolting around. And even just selfishly, Clint is here for anything that minimizes pain for Coulson (who glances at him at that thought with a pained smile).

“Communications, basically. I hope.” Stark drops an index card-sized strip of plastic film on the thing's 'head' and waits while it sort of, maybe, melts (?) into the “skin” there. “Okay, so what is it you really want us to know, buddy?”

Sparkles start to swirl and swish around in the gel, and then words sort of form. In the air. Over its head. Like fireworks.

Seriously, life. SO weird.

LOVEGROUP UNFORMING. INTERRUPTION. DISCONTINUATION. DOOM.

“Oh, well this is helping tons,” Clint says. Coulson shushes him and keeps watching as the letters pop into nothingness and rearrange.

CAREGROUP INTENDING. UNITY INTENDING. JOINING ASSIST.

Clint can feel weird intention around the words, like they're imprecise and something is trying to help him blend them into the right meaning. “Is he saying he did this to us?” He waves a finger back and forth between himself and Coulson. “Uh, Sprite Guy, you gave us telepathy?”

THINKING FEELS. CAREGROUP FORMING. The letters melt and fade and then, smaller and darker, STORM NECESSARY UNWANTED. 

“He gave us empathy, with a side of telepathy,” Coulson says. “And the electrical thing was ...a side effect?”

“Oh, well that's great. Can we stop having any-pathy? Hey Sprite Guy, can you undo it?” Coulson glances at Clint and Clint gets a weird little surge of hurt, so he eases up a little on how tight he's wrapping the foot.

CAREGROUP, the little guy repeats. INTERRUPTING REFORMING UNITING DEMANDING.

“J, can you get a faster stream from him?” Stark says into the suit. He listens for a minute as words form and morph quickly on the surface of the creature's skin, then looks at Clint and Coulson. “JARVIS thinks it really really wants you to kiss, basically.”

“So he tried to blow us up? How is that great for kissing, even if we want to which I kind of think is not his call?”

JARVIS's voice comes out of the speaker this time. “Apparently that was a matter of it using too much power. It seems it is an inexperienced Cupid, and overestimated its output.”

“Cupid. Seriously?” Clint squints at Sprite Guy. “You look 100% exactly like nothing I have ever seen representing a cupid. Although I guess you did kind of shoot us, with electricity, which by the way is maybe sometimes a little bit _lethal to humans_.”

Words coalesce and rearrange even more quickly.

“It appears it was certain you had been on the verge of, and then failed at, making feelings known. It was driven to repair your affair. It remains convinced this was the right course which was why it attempted to require the two of you to communicate and, not incidentally, experience the cliché of being trapped together in a small space and wonder whatever might you do.” JARVIS pauses, then adds, “It says now it needs you to unite in order to keep its failure from generating some kind of disaster it seems quite upset about, but cannot clearly specify.”

“Okay, no, fuck that. If I wanna be with Coulson, that’s my business to decide to pursue and I mean, he gets to say no. This is not up to a sparklegel electrical alien with a god complex and no sense of scale or privacy.”

“Why would I say no?”

Clint blinks. “Uh, okay, _because_ , but really I do not want to have this conversation with Stark and an overgrown blob of kids' toothpaste.”

“What does it mean by unite?” Coulson wants to know.

“Oh Christ, if this is going to turn into an Aliens Made Us Do It event...” Clint sighs. “Please tell me it will be satisfied with a boop to the nose or something.”

Stark grins like a fucking shark. “No, I like the other idea better. The Aliens Making You idea. Hey, whoa Sparky! Sparky, wait!”

Sparky doesn't. Not that Clint has any idea how to stop him anyway, but before he can make a move, Sparky is passing _through_ Coulson (what the HELL! NO.), zigzagging and spinning and then making a move that Clint can't help but interpret as some kind of little victory dance.

And the pressure of the pain in Coulson's ankle eases—it's still present, but much less. He flexes his hands, and those are better, too.

“What was that?”

“It seems to have decided you required incentive.”

“Okay, fine, nice show of faith and all, but like, I take threats kind of poorly,” Clint says. “And I feel like this is you saying you can fix or break him on demand, and that’s shitty. If you’re gonna break someone—“

“Barton, don’t you dare throw yourself on that grenade.” Coulson shakes his head. “Sparky, what do you actually want us to do?”

UNITE. INTERRUPTING CEASE. UNITE.

“Like J said, he realllllly wants you to, uh, couple.”

Clint looks at Coulson, who his new Spidey senses tell him is a little anxious, but not afraid, and sighs. “This is the stupidest moment of my incredibly bizarre life. Coulson, to make an alien blob of glittercrap happy, I can't believe I am saying this, I am going to kiss you now. Sparky, coupling is private, and not for your entertainment, and you are going to have to just live with this much.” 

Sparky, and again with the what is Clint’s life, slumps down as though it isn’t sure how it will go on with such meager offerings, but Clint is definitely, entirely, completely not down with making Coulson do a damn thing, and also Stark is right there probably taking pictures and damn it, Clint _likes_ Stark and doesn’t want to have to break his knees. 

Coulson apparently thinks the same thing (or hears Clint), because he says sharply “Stark, cameras _off_.” Stark, who obeys no one, makes a ‘who, me?’ face, but Clint reminds him Coulson still carries that Taser, and he puts his hands up in agreement.

“So, kissing,” Clint says to Coulson. 

“Apparently.”

“How do you feel?”

“Sore, but basically all right. You?”

“I was never hurt, except where you were. Anyway, let’s get this done.” Clint leans in, takes a breath, and presses his lips to Coulson’s.

And well hey.

Turns out, tele-empathy is way more overwhelming when there’s kissing involved. Which is stupid; they already touched _skin_ so it’s not just a touch thing. And they already, like, physically cooperated, so really this should be more of the same, but it’s not.

It’s really not.

Coulson's mouth under his is heated and slick, firm, perfect, everything he needs and then the _feedback_ loop, god. He feels himself via Coulson and feels how Coulson feels himself being felt---it's a hall of mirrors where every mirror is more of some incredibly seductive drug, and Clint finds he needs to move, to bring them both to the floor so their bodies are free to just feel. Coulson is on board, completely, folding down with him without a single hitch that might lose either of them an instant of what seems to be almost a literal liplock, and after another moment something--Sparky, they collectively determine by some kind of magic Clint doesn't bother trying to assess at all--makes this, this sensation, not a sound and not a sight and not a smell, but something that expresses gladness and relief, and neither of them can find anything wrong with the sentiment. Or any inclination to try.

The upshot of which is that Clint loses himself completely in a kiss that was supposed to be a quick little peck, and when he surfaces the two of them are lying there on the floor of a CPA's office with a floral-handbag pillow and swollen, whisker-burned lips, and oh hey, Coulson looks like he has a fever he’s so glazed over.

Although, Clint kind of feels like he might be drunk, so probably this is all Sparky’s fault. He looks around, spotting his quiver set leaning against a corner with his bow and both his and Coulson’s guns there with it.

Natasha is sitting on a chair ten feet away, feet up on the desk half-covering the nameplate of someone named Walter. “Better?” she asks.

Clint pushes away from Coulson and sits up, scowling. “How long?”

“I got here about thirty-five minutes ago. I’m amazed neither of you died of oxygen deprivation, but I made Stark go on out and deal with the press while I kept you company just in case.”

“What happened to Sparky?” Coulson is sitting up now, too, flexing his hands and pulling off the remains of the apparently-unnecessary dressings; based on sticky little bits here and there on Clint’s clothing, it seems maybe he shed the rest just roaming his hands. Which makes sense; Clint’s body feels electric, not like before but like all his nerves are wide awake. Especially the ones—well. He’s a big boy and doesn’t need to do anything about that right this minute. Coulson snorts at him, and okay, he’s pretty much in the same boat.

“Sparky’s mother, for lack of a better word although it seems she holds a role that encompasses mother, teacher, mentor, and employer, arrived and is cooperating with Cap to work with authorities and repair the building. I have no idea what Hill’s going to do with either of them, but Mama seemed both relieved and distressed. And more than a bit embarrassed that her offspring-slash-student has apparently developed an unhealthy obsession with American romcom tropes.”

“What, mother? Like, a _baby_ alien made us do it?”

"Yes. A baby alien made you do it, if that's what gets you through the day," Nat says, because she has zero sympathy for Clint's predicaments most of the time and likes to poke him for fun." 

“No, a baby alien made us kiss," Coulson argues. "But apparently you are a gentleman and were determine to protect my virtue. Can you still feel everything I’m feeling?” He tests the ankle, winces slightly, and then gets up on his knees and stands. 

Clint thinks about it. “It’s like it’s still kind of there, but not as urgent. But yes, you should get off that foot. Sir. Also, what, wait, _I_ was a gentleman? Because I sort of think I just kissed the shit out of you. And vice versa, but like, I don't think anyone who was looking thought I was protecting anyone's virtue at all.”

Coulson smiles, a gentle, fond little quirk. "Barton, you're the one who told the little monster we would not be 'coupling' for its, or Stark's, entertainment, and I think it believed you. I can't help but think otherwise we'd be being uploaded to XTube right now."

"Oh, please. Stark would start his own service, not rub elbows with the amateurs," Clint says. But he also blushes a little at Coulson's defense of his motives, and notices he's still holding Coulson's hand. He lets go, grimacing slightly at the loss of contact, and turns to Nat. "So, now what?"

"Yes," Coulson agrees. "What are we in for, and what can we control?"

“Mama said it would fade once you disassociated,” Natasha says. She drops her feet to the floor and adds, “I think I’ll go help Hill.”

“Oh,” said Coulson. A little wave of regret comes with the word, and Clint notices a tiny unhappy twist of his lip.

“What?”

“What, what.”

“Don’t front. I said I still feel it, just not as much. What’s with the regret thing?”

“I kind of liked it.”

Natasha turns to call over her shoulder, “She also said it would stay and get stronger, if you wanted to keep associating instead. I’m just saying.”

Clint shudders at the jolt of interested, eager sensation he gets from Coulson, and turns back to look at him. “So…”

“So, we can go our separate ways and leave this alone…”

“Or?”

“Or we can go home together, keep, you know, _associating_ , and deal with possibly-inconvenient probably-difficult certainly-intoxicating telepathy indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely?” Clint feels like all the hairs on his body are leaning in for the answer.

“When has either of us ever done anything halfway?” 

“What about the paperwork on this shitshow?” Clint is stepping forward as he speaks, like the electrical disturbance earlier magnetized them both. "Can you stand not to--"

“Still be there tomorrow.” Coulson steps into Clint’s space, but he's still the tiniest bit doubtful. “You in?”

Clint’s belly gives a slow and intense flip, like he’s diving through flames or maybe saving the solar system, and hey, that’s part him, part Coulson—

“You ever gonna call me Phil, even in your own head?”

Clint groans. “Why is you asking that hot?”

“I’m pretty sure right now we both think everything ever is hot, but you didn’t answer the question.”

Clint can’t help it, he has to surge forward a little, kiss the quirked eyebrow and down the temple to the jaw to the lips, dragging them both down to the floor again. He lets the kiss linger for just a few seconds this time, more aware of their surroundings and the passage of time than before even though he's also more aware of every inch of Coul--Phil, and then he breathes, “Question?”

Phil gives a little quiver and chases Clint's lips, but then pauses and says, “I just don't want to assume. Are you in?”

“So in. So in I can't hardly remember what out would look like, but I don't give a fuck.”

“Good. Now get off me because I am not getting naked with you for the first time in an office whose occupants might be allowed back in at any time. Also, we are not having sex on Miriam’s handbag.”

Clint untangles them again and rolls to his feet – it’s an effort and a half, ugh, but Phil’s right – and can’t keep himself from immediately reaching out and taking Phil’s hand, helping him up and then keeping their fingers entwined. “This okay?”

“So okay. Now come on.” Phil helps Clint collect their weapons then hurries them along the corridor toward the elevator Clint was originally in, limping a little but ignoring the twinges.

Clint stops them short of the door, tilting his head. “You really wanna get back in an elevator?”

“I really do.” Phil shoves Clint in ahead of him, follows, closes the door, and hits the button for the ground floor. “I figure this way we have a good minute to ourselves.”

Clint nods. “I like the way you think. Uh, like, this idea, but also the thinking part with the feelings.”

“Kay.” Phil backs up against the rear wall and beckons Clint to him, and when their lips meet again, good god, if this is going to be how things are, Clint is wondering if he should just send in his resignation right now because he’s never getting out of bed again. 

Natasha is waiting at the lobby doors and points them to a waiting car. “I assumed,” she says.

“You know us well,” Phil tells her and heads that way.

“What were you gonna do if you were wrong?” Clint asks.

“Knock your heads together. Sparky was misguided and apparently hooked on Harlequin, but right.”

“Yeah, okay, fine. Maybe we’re a little overdue.”

“Or a lot. Go home. Find the limits of telepathic sex. Don’t tell me about them and for the love of all that is holy, don’t tell Stark either.”

“Yeah, not gonna be a problem.” Clint jogs after Phil, catches up as they slide into the back of the car, and sighs when he realizes it’s Happy driving. Happy, who will roll up the divider, take his time, and not say a word.

Clint drops his bow and everything else in a pile as the dark glass starts to come up, pulls Phil to straddle his lap, and shoves his fingers into Phil’s hair. Yeah, the paperwork will still be there, but he’s pretty sure neither of them is going to want to do it then, either. Or at least, he’s going to do his best.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd hoped to get my act together for a smutty epilogue, but alas, no luck. Still, please do imagine your own backseat, foyer, shower, living room, conference room, and kitchen island sex that I promise did happen soon and also recurrently in the aftermath of Sparky's little adventure.


End file.
